Page 145 of Secrets Along the Shore
“Possibly. It’s equally likely the jail attack was orchestrated by someone connected to one of Fogerty’s victims, or even the other inmates going at him for some unrelated reason. But I don’t see why either of those last options would make him decide to not talk to me.”
“When you met with him, did Fogerty say anything that suggested who we should be looking at for Kamden Avery’s murder—and, well, I guess Teresa Anders’s murder too, now that you’re questioning the differences between her case and the early ones.”
“No. Not a thing.”
“And her phone hasn’t turned up?”
I shake my head. “It wasn’t included in the personal items her housemate gave me or in her car. Probably dumped by the killer a long time ago, after he was done impersonating her on Instagram during those first few weeks.”
“Okay, keep at it. Let me know if I need to make any calls…get any balls rollin’. What’s next for you?”
“I’m working on connecting with Kamden’s drug supplier, the one who had a thing for her. I want to chase down the other dealer who had a problem with her too. Then we’ll go from there. I’ll keep you posted,” I say, and move toward the door.
“You be careful with those dealers,” Sheriff Vickers says as I step into the hallway.
I don’t turn around but offer a two-fingered salute. “Always am, Sheriff. I always am.”
I had planned on being in the courtroom for the better part of the day. Now, with Fogerty’s fate settled—more expeditiously thanexpected—nothing is keeping me from making some headway in the Kamden Avery case.
Every day that goes by is another day Kamden Avery’s killer has the chance to take another life. I need to put an end to this.
And I know exactly where I’m going to start.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
After stoppingat home to walk Bilbo and change, I head to Huntsville. It’s noon when I cross over the Tennessee River on Clement Clay Bridge, and my stomach is rumbling. I stop at BBQ Ray’s food truck on Huntsville’s south side and make short work of a slaw-smothered barbecue sandwich, seasoned crinkle fries, and hushpuppies.
It doesn’t get much better than that.
I spend a few minutes trying and failing to rub an orange barbecue sauce stain out of my jeans, then check my messages. I’m disappointed, but not surprised I haven’t heard back from Reggie, Kamden’s supplier with the crush.
After searching several online databases last night, I’m fairly sure his full name is Reggie Banks. I’ve texted and called the number Serenity gave me for him, but so far, no luck. Hopefully, Reggie’s feelings for Kamden will win out over any desire to avoid law enforcement, but I’m not counting on it. If I don’t hear back by this afternoon, I’ll have to go down there and ferret him out.
I head up Memorial Parkway, the main north-south thoroughfare through the city, fighting the lunch hour congestion which makes what should be a five-minute drive a twenty-minute one. Thank goodness someone years ago had the foresight to build the multi-lane parkway before it was needed. I can only imagine how horrible the traffic would be without it.
Huntsville is a bit of a unicorn—a mix of Southern hospitality and high-tech innovation. It’s Alabama’s largest metropolis and home to NASA, the Space and Rocket Center, and more engineers and scientists than you can shake a calculator at. This place helped get us to the moon.
Now if they could only do something about the humidity.
Huntsville doesn’t only have names like Boeing and Lockheed Martin and Redstone Arsenal. It’s got Trash Pandas baseball, the Orion amphitheater, Panoply Art Festival, a symphony, and botanical gardens. The area is highly educated and infinitely more cultured than people sadly assume—given it’s Alabama—with enough artisan coffee to satisfy hard-core caffeine addicts.
It’s a pretty wonderful place to land.
I make a quick stop at my office and switch cars with Goat—he lets me borrow the Tesla when the need arises—then head to the offices of Hutchins Investigations on University Drive, about ten minutes away.
My GPS takes me to a long, white brick building split into three spaces. Hutchins Investigations sits in the middle, flanked by a barber shop on one side and an empty office on the other sporting a half-scraped, unreadable logo on the door. I pull into the lot and park facing the street, making sure my rearview mirror gives me a view of the office entrance.
A familiar black Toyota 4Runner occupies the parking spot closest to the front door.
I check myself in the mirror and find I’m hardly recognizable. The auburn wig with straight, shoulder-length hair, black-rimmed glasses, and blue contact lenses have made me into another person. One I am banking on Roy Hutchins not recognizing if and when he sees me. He definitely won’t recognize the Tesla.
Showtime.
My nude high heels tip-tap on the pavement as I cross to the sidewalk along the building’s front. I straighten, hoping that, despite my small stature, I make an impressive silhouette in my navy shell dress and dangly silver earrings.
A bell rings as I open the door, and I’m greeted by the same odor of cheap, bitter cigarettes that filled the 4Runner.
